


Far Too Many Notes for My Taste

by catcorsair



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Coffin sex, Confessions, Cute, Dom!Erik, Domestic Fluff, Enthusiastic Consent, Erik is Permanently Aroused, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family, First Time, Firsts, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, Love, Mild Smut, Nervousness, Object Insertion, One Shot Collection, Pegging, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Public Hand Jobs, Public Nudity, Red Death - Freeform, Relationship(s), Roughness, Sexual Content, Short One Shot, Shorts from "Like Pulling Teeth", Silly, Smut, Spanking, Stripping, Sub!Erik, Sub!Raoul, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing, Terik - Freeform, Virginity, Voyeurism, rope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catcorsair/pseuds/catcorsair
Summary: ... and most of them about Christine!A collection of shorter phics I have written for Tumblr followers. Generally between 350-2000 words in length. A little bit smutty, mostly fluffy, sometimes sad. Individual summaries preclude each entry. Enjoy!*new story added November 17* FLIRTING: E/C silly fluff
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian, Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 180
Kudos: 233





	1. Erik Loses It

_**Prompt:** "E/C with VIRGIN Erik because I wanna see it happen!" from my dear Mazen_

* * *

“Erik, I am frightened,” she whispered, as soon as his mouth had released hers. The kiss had been nervous, closed-mouthed, but sweet; Christine had imagined something passionate and consuming when their lips finally met, and yet the longer she knew the man, the more she found that gentleness suited him. He could not be the murderous spectre so many accused him of being, that deadly Phantom; he was simply her Angel––simply a man––his naked, honest body pressed to hers beneath the soft sheets of their marriage bed, as he kissed her like any husband might kiss the woman he called his wife.

“You never have to fear me, Christine,” he told her, and there was a sadness shadowed in his quiet words, “I will never frighten you again.”

She traced her palm over the bare curve of his pointed shoulder, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “I know, Erik. It’s just––this. Will it hurt?”

The yellow eyes burned bright behind the black shroud of the mask; in the almost-darkness of the small but opulent underground bedroom, they glowed above her like two distant lanterns. Christine could see the jagged silhouettes of his eyelashes shadowed in his stare as he lowered his gaze to escape hers.

“I do not know, Christine,” he said, his Angel’s voice low and measured, as the pad of his trembling thumb brushed her cheek. “Erik has not… you are my…” His fingers stroked over her hair, spread like a golden halo on the pillow beneath them both. “I have never done this before.”

“Nor I,” whispered Christine. “We will have to learn together.”

When she slid a hand down between the crush of their bodies to stroke at his rigid sex in a fist he whimpered and sagged into her touch; “I won’t be able to––if you do that––” he warned, apologetic, and Christine could sense the truth to his promise in the moisture already pooling over her fingers. Unsure what to do beyond touching, she drew her hands away to wrap them about his narrow back, feeling the angular knobs of his spine press into the fat of her palms. Presently she felt him shift against her; lacking his common, sinuous grace, he was clumsily guiding himself between her thighs, as his teeth cut into his thin lower lip. When she felt the slick tip of him pressing into her entrance, Christine dug her nails into his shoulders and gave a breathy cry of surprise.

Erik froze. “Do you wish me to stop?” he asked, anxious. Beneath his slight weight, Christine could feel all the sinews of his muscles stiffen as his naked skin, sticky with nerves, barely touched against her own. She knew he was terrified of her answer.

This understanding pained her more than she could have anticipated; for all his claims of undying devotion for her, for everything he gave her freely and in love, Erik had clearly never expected this.

He had never expected her to love him in return.

“No,” she promised him, uncharacteristically bold; driven by something primal, hungry, she eased her hips into his, adding––though the words shocked her, coming from her usually-tremulous lips–– “Erik, I am yours.” Now when she kissed him she dug her fingers into his sparse hair, binding his mouth to her own. Erik groaned into her kiss; when Christine thrust her tongue into his open mouth he met it with vigor. Half a lifetime of desire, Christine could sense in that ravening kiss, and now it consumed her, as she whispered his name in the dark––

As they broke apart, Erik met her stare; all the longing of the world was reflected in that watery, yellow, unblinking stare. Every question that man had ever asked was contained in those impossible eyes, and unequivocally, Christine said yes to every one of them. Slowly, resolutely, she nodded, as silent tears spilled from those golden eyes; and then on a cry, a breathless grunting moan––a tearing, a filling, a breaking free––the thing was done:

They were one.

* * *

_A/N: A rare thing indeed, as I really can't deal with a VIRGIN Erik. (Not that there is anything wrong with that!) I like my man EXPERIENCED!_

_Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	2. Special Delivery

_**Prompt:** "blinded + strangers in the night 👀 ehehe ❤" from the lovely helloitskrisha _

* * *

The package had been waiting on her dressing-table when she arrived at the Garnier that morning, wrapped in gossamer paper and bound with a fine silk bow the precise color of polished onyx–that alone costing a week of her salary or more. One solitary red rose was carefully tucked into the ribbon, along with a note, upon which was scrawled in spidery red ink:

_To wear to your lesson, tonight._

There could be no doubt in Christine's mind who it was from. Now, after the night's performance was long finished and the bustle of the opera had quieted to a sleepy sedulousness, Christine waited for _him_ in the flickering candlelight of her half-darkened dressing room, idly fingering the gift in sweating, trembling palms.

A blindfold.

Suddenly his voice resounded within the small room: as if it sounded from Heaven itself, the Angel's song boomed and resonated throughout the space, from nowhere and everywhere all at once, filling her mind with an orchestra of sound such that she could no longer hear her own anxious, doubting thoughts. Christine found herself rising from her couch to move like a woman possessed towards that haunted mirror, joining her voice with his in rapturous song, the silken blindfold hanging from her trembling fingers.

And then the song ended and the room was thrown into an uncanny, dangerous silence, as a warning electricity thrummed in the air just as it did her heated blood:

"Put it on," said the Angel, that awesome voice impossible to resist. "Put it on, Christine… and take off your dress."

* * *

_A/N: Technically this is just "blinded", I suppose... whoops_

_Thanks for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated **:)**_


	3. The Angel of Music is Very Strict

_**Prompt:** "christine gets caught in the rain of her way to the theater (late for her voice lesson) and when the phantom sees how soaking wet she is he let's her change into some of his clothes so she doesnt catch a cold :)" from an Anon_

* * *

“Erik, I will do no such thing!” she exclaimed, frowning incredulously at the man sitting opposite her in the warm interior of their shared brougham, as it teetered down the uneven cobblestones of the Rue Paix.

But he was already taking off his cloak; the luxurious black cashmere swept about his shoulders in a gesture of refined majesty, remarkably contained within the confines of the swaying carriage. He had come upon her walking in the mild Summer rain, alone and without a cover as she headed for the Opera––following her at several paces behind in a cab, as was his oddly-endearing inclination––and insisted she enter the carriage. Now he stared at her with alarm.

“Christine, you are soaked to the skin. I will not tolerate your becoming ill on my account, just because I allowed your girlish whim of _walking_ to the Opera––”

“We will be there in less than a moment!” she protested, laughing mildly at her companion’s serious expression, at the concern etched across all the visible parts of his severe face. “Angel, really––you must stop treating me as an invalid. It was only a spot of rain. There isn’t even a chill in the air––”

Undeterred, Erik thrust the cloak in her direction. “Christine, undress. This instant,” he said gravely, and dutifully averted his eyes.

Christine sighed as she collected the garment from his outstretched hand; he gave a low sound of approval as she took it from him. Still staring down at his lap, in a chivalrous attempt at preserving her modesty––though quite superfluous, frankly, as the man had already seen and sampled all the secret parts of her long before––Erik raised a hand to block his gaze, and repeated, “Christine, off with it, before you catch pneumonia!“

Muttering wordlessly, Christine started on the neat row of sodden buttons down the front of her walking dress. She was well-accustomed to the overly-attentive concern of her tutor; though sometimes unavoidably grating, she knew Erik meant well, even if his expression of it was perhaps over-the-top.

And so she had learned how to _counter_ it, when necessary.

“I’m taking off my top, Erik,” she said quietly, as the wet fabric fell limply to her side.

Eyes resolutely downcast, her companion muttered, “yes, yes, on with it––”

“I’m taking off my skirts––”

“Faster, child!” he urged her, rapping his cane impatiently on the cabin floor, “before the damage is done!”

She peeled away another wet layer. “I’m taking off my corset, Erik––” she breathed, and now there was something soft and measured in her voice, as garment after garment flopped at her side and about her feet, “I’m taking off my stockings––”

He gave a low grunt in lieu of civilized speech, followed by an odd, strangled breath.

“Erik, I’m taking off my soaked panties––”

“Good, good,” he said absently, though his long fingered hand had curled into a tight fist atop his knee, and his every breath came loud and labored from his lowered face. “Right, Christine, stop wasting time––on with it––”

And then for the coup de grace: Christine slid a hand down her naked front and whispered throatily, “oh, Erik… I’m still so very wet…”

Now the yellow gaze darted urgently upward, as a short breath pushed raggedy from his slack and hanging mouth. Before him Christine sat, fully naked, upon the gently-swaying carriage bench, bare breasts moving sinuously with every bump in the road; Erik stroked the root of his cane in a senselessly obscene gesture, as his tongue darted over his thin lower lip.

“But the cloak…” he said stupidly.

Christine tapped a slippered foot in feined impatience and stroked at the fine cashmere, balled up on the bench to her side, atop her own soaked garments. Then, smiling wryly, she spread her thighs just enough to make the Angel cough inelegantly, and teased a fingertip over her bare thigh.

“Driver!” shouted Erik suddenly, urgently, without releasing Christine’s steady gaze. His fingers clawed at his trembling knee. “ _Driver!_ Stop here––pull over right here––damn you, man, _pull over!_ ”

Without looking back over his shoulder at what he did, he groped for his purse in his breast pocket and brusquely flung the entire thing behind him, through the chauffer’s payment window. “Make haste! And get out of the carriage for––”

“Several minutes,” offered Christine, as her finger slid between her thighs.

“––for several minutes,” he echoed, numbly. “Take a walk about the block––”

“Monsieur?” came an incredulous voice from the front of the brougham.

Erik rapped at the little window with his cane and hissed, “go, imbecile, before I throttle you! By God, man! Something has come up––”

Now Christine winked at her dumbfounded Angel, her gaze darting knowingly over his lap. “Go, Monsieur,” she added, leaning forward to slide her fingertips over the straining bulge of her companion’s groin, as he gave a shuddering groan at the touch, and his cane clattered to the carriage floor between them, “ _something_ certainly has…”

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated :)_


	4. Easily Subdued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine discovers a very effective means of eliminating Erik's bad temper.

_**Prompt** : "3 words. GROUCHY OLDER ERIK (Preferably in the same AU as your carriage smut drabble 😉)" for the lovely **@notaghost3**_

* * *

“Again!” he shouted, his Angel’s voice rancorous, brimming with witheld emotion, “ _again!_ Damn it, Christine! Try harder! Insolent child––you have no focus!” **  
**

She knew her voice had not been at its peak tonight, even before she began her scales, and yet she had made her best attempt at the _O Patria Mia_ ; now, as Erik glared up at her from the piano bench, breathing heavily with his long fingers curled in rigid fists on his thighs, she crossed her arms across her breast and pinched her lips tightly shut, biting back the sting of tears that threatened behind her eyes.

Suddenly he flung the score across the room, sending papers flying from its leather folio, and thrust his elbows down upon the keys with a resounding cacophony. Muttering, "damn it all, damn it all to Hell," he buried his head in his clawing fingers, and presently dislodged and cast his mask away as well.

Christine sighed, watching the leather shield skitter across the carpet and flop face down by the hearth. Her Angel's wrath certainly had the capacity to terrify––and once, Christine had allowed herself to be cowed by it, quickly fleeing to her subterranean bedroom at the first sign of a storm. Now she understood her maestro well enough to see that his outrage was rarely truly intended for her.

And she had long ago determined to eliminate it, by any means necessary.

“You are not upset with me, Erik,” she said carefully, uncrossing her arms from their protective hold with some effort. “What is this really about?”

He snorted. “ _Everyone_ on this damned planet is an imbecile, save I. I am surrounded by fools; I am drowning in idiocy!” Christine gave a sharp cough and he added, "but not you." Then, sheepishly: "my apologies––you are very intelligent, Christine, of course––"

She made a quiet sound of sympathy and combed her nails through his hair, delighting in the tactile sensation of the soft, graying mass between her fingers. Beneath her gentle touch, Erik's shoulders sagged slightly; after several moments, he raised his head from his hands.

“Again, they insist upon featuring that cow over you, Christine... Can you not see the cruelty in such an act? The damage they insist on enacting upon the very reputation of this grand establishment… upon you! Which shall not be tolerated, any longer…” He met her stare, his yellow eyes searching. “I do hate to murder women, but really, you understand, something must be done––”

“You will do no such thing, Erik,” said Christine softly, gliding a palm from his scalp to his spine. He gave a quiet moan into the caress, then a grunt, as if he attempted to shrug her attention away.

But when her lips pressed against the naked flesh of his ruined cheek, he muttered, "no, no, I suppose that will not do at all... not murder, then, my dear… if you say so..."

He turned on the piano bench to face her. Capturing both her hands in his, he squeezed lightly at the dangling fingers, pressed them in turns to his malformed, thin lips, then raised his chin like a guilty child ready to receive his punishment. "I apologize, Christine," he muttered, subdued, "my behavior has been unforgivably boorish, this evening… your singing is as rapturous as it ever was, and I am a sorry fool for saying otherwise. If you would be amenable––not that I deserve it, of course––but, ah, would you like to continue with your lesson?”

Christine gave a haughty pout, turning her nose up at him, though she could not repress her knowing smile. "No, Erik, I shall not tolerate any more of your anger, tonight," she said with dramatic severity––for she was an actress, after all––still holding on to his fingers as she lowered to her knees before him. His tongue darted out over his lip as she loosed his hands to slide her palms up the inside of his thighs, gently pushing them apart at the knees; obediently, his dress shoes slid over the parquet as his nervous expression quickly transformed to something darker, something hungry, and a breath hissed sharply from between his twisted lips: "but I can think of a far more _pleasing_ way to spend our time…"

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	5. A Little (Red) Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine knows what she wants, and isn't about to let a crowd of hundreds get in the way of her getting it.

_**Prompt** : "RED DEATH! RED DEATH! for an Anon_

* * *

She knew the imposing, terrible figure dressed as the Red Death was him––her Angel, her Maestro, her jailer, and the madman who loved her more than any man ever could––but did he know that the plain, simple black domino was she? In the costumes they wore now, did their true identities even matter? Here, Christine could become anyone she wanted––anyone she lacked the courage to be in his home five stories beneath the earth. **  
**

 _Don't touch me! I am Red Death stalking abroad!_ proclaimed the golden embroidery stitched across his front: a warning to any unsuspecting party-goer who might venture too close to the Opera Ghost.

But Christine had no intention of following his orders, tonight.

They were pressed close together by the time he even noticed her there, her slight form crushed to his imposing front. Without a moment's pause, knowing he could shove her aside or strangle her should he determine her a threat, Christine grabbed for the waistband of his trousers and cast her gaze to his.

Red Death glared down at her, callously detached, yellow eyes narrowing with interest as Christine bit her lower lip and slid her nervous fingers beneath his fly, even amid the raucous bustle of the masquerade, as careless revelers danced and shoved past, sloshing endless glasses of champagne upon the carpeted floor.

"Madame––" he muttered, shocked. Christine wondered if any woman had ever been so bold with him; she wondered if any woman had ever touched him in this way at all, without receiving a heavy purse for her troubles.

Despite his confusion, the numb and frozen expression on the alien face––that face that looked so unnatural, and yet was entirely his––his body responded to her; his cock stood eager and rigid at her touch, tenting the red silk of his trousers. Now as the bacchanal carried on all around, ignorant to the strange couple pressed against each other in a shadowed corner of the packed room, Christine pressed her body close to his, gliding her fist over his bare shaft inside his trousers, watching his dangerous eyes narrow and flutter in his horror of a face.

“ _Christine?_ ” he breathed, and she could tell that he hardly trusted the words which spilled from his own trembling lips, “why––”

“Because I want to, Erik,” she told him, her steady motions forcing his shuddering groan.

Anxiously his yellow eyes darted around them, to the crowds of anonymous strangers, their bodies so close that Christine could feel the crushing heat of them, feel the tease of their costumes brushing her skin. Still she worked her fist beneath his half-opened trousers, exciting at every breathless sound, every strangled groan from his siren’s throat as she pumped his sex in her hand, thanking him, needing him––

Red Death gripped her shoulder with a shuddering, too-tight fist, drawing his ornate cloak about them both; now, beneath the fabric mantle, he let his fingers explore her warm body, senselessly squeezing at her breasts and caressing her curves as with every pull, every stroke, Christine brought him closer to release––

"I'm going to––" he breathed, raggedly, stumbling slightly and gripping a banister to his side, "oh, I'm sorry––"

And he did. His death's-head fell back, gaping, gruesome maw panting, against the wall behind him as his entire body sagged; sticky with him, Christine released his limply-throbbing shaft, and slid her hand from his half-opened trousers. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she captured his yellow, frantic stare, and licked her skin clean of him as he watched.

"Take me back home," she whispered. "It's my turn."

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	6. Plump, Juicy, Chocolate Cherries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik gets an eyeful of an old friend.

_**Prompt:** '"Plump, juicy chocolate cherries." Yes, that's a prompt. Take it any way you like. Any pairing.' from an Anon_

* * *

Following the Persian about had gradually become something of a hobby, fueled by boredom and a vague if passive curiosity, though if Erik were honest with himself, the obsession had mainly been a response to the man's own odd and oft-aggravating surveillance of _The Opera Ghost_ in his various going ons beneath the Opera. In truth––besides killing him outright––Erik really didn't know how to express his annoyance at his old friend by any other means than, well... simply annoying him in kind. **  
**

Today Erik had followed his feet quite without realizing where they had taken him, thoughtlessly accompanying the old Daroga through the bowels of the Garnier and well beyond, through the summer market in the Bois where he (very-mundanely) purchased a chicken, two heads of asparagus, and four! macarons, then on a leisurely stroll through the first floor public gallery of the Louvre. Now, ingloriously crouching at a dirty window in a lonely alleyway off the Rue St. Honore, Erik held back a dingy curtain and studiously stared as the well-built-if-aging man trimmed his beard in his steamy bathroom mirror. After preparing and placing the chicken in the oven, the old Daroga had long-ago undressed, carefully hanging his dress shirt and his trousers in the modest apartment's solitary wardrobe and wrapping himself in a long white towel.

Nothing exciting, Erik knew; he really ought to go…Christine Daae would be performing tonight, after all!

And yet.

The old Daroga was far more interesting to look at without his clothing on than he had been _with_. He had the body of a man far younger than his deeply-lined face would suggest; despite the graying curls at the center of his fine, distinguished chest, he possessed a sort of muscular, sinuous thickness––smooth and taut and lean––that Erik found himself unintentionally admiring. As the odd, yet not entirely uncommon tingling beneath his trousers could apparently attest to, the Daroga was certainly a fine specimen of masculinity.

Erik always had an eye for beauty.

As the Persian turned to the tub, letting the towel loosely slung about his hips fall to the cracked terra-cotta tiles, Erik mindlessly drummed the tips of his gloved fingers on the stone windowsill, staring. Between his old friend's shapely legs hung a sizable shaft, sleepily bobbing against the thick curls that clung to his inner thighs; above that, as he bent low to test the temperature of the bathwater on his fingertips, two lush mounds of soft, supple, honey-brown skin, shiny and reddened with steam––

"Daroga, old chap!" Erik mused aloud, as steam crept up the window-glass, obscuring his view of the aging Adonis within, "who knew! A cock like a log––God willing, he hasn't wasted that thing. And an ass like two plump, juicy, chocolate cherries…!"

He released the curtain, allowing the gauzy fabric to ease back into place and chewed at his twisted lower lip. He was suddenly ravenous: he really ought to stop at the sweet shop on his way back home, or risk succumbing to an all-together more desirous craving…

Little Christine Daae could wait. Her young man would surely be in the wings to admire her anyway––rendering his own angelic praise unfortunately redundant––and Erik hardly needed to spend yet another night surreptitiously crying in a darkened restaurant window as he watched his beloved protege be wooed into bed by a _gorgeous_ , if alarmingly doltish, complete and utter fop.

But perhaps it was a good evening to pay a visit to his old friend, after all!

And this time–– _in the flesh!_

* * *

_Thanks for following along! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	7. Payback

_**Prompt:** Sorry for the confusion but I just finding the Erik gets pegged prompt and HOOOOOLY GUACAMOLE that’s some good shit! But if it’s alright with you, could you right a Christine x Bottom! Erik prompt relating to bondage? Like Christine ties up Erik and just goes to t o w n_

* * *

She knew the ropes must burn, and yet the Angel never complained, only grunting weakly when she forced his face to the ground at her feet by the long cord wrapped tightly about his throat; when she put her knee to his spine, straddling him, he gave a heady groan at the touch of her naked sex beneath her spread skirts, hot and slick against his bare skin.

"You like this," Christine breathed into his ear, bending low such that the whole of her body, still in her bloodied petticoats, was thrust close against his bound and sweating nakedness, "does it remind you of days long ago?" She ground her shape onto his, rubbing her sex on the angular ridges of his arched spine until she gave a heady whine; beneath her, Erik dug his fingernails into the carpet and groaned into his gag. " _Monster––_ do you like to be used, like you are nothing more than a freak meant for show?"

His hands were bound at the wrist, tied fast against his body by a cord wrapped around his chest; his legs were sprawled and naked, the splayed knees crushed to the cold floor of his underground living-room. Between his pale thighs hung his bare, swollen sex, his testicles fat and heavy as his rigid shaft oozed steadily onto the carpet. With a muffled wail he tried to rise up on his knees; laughing, Christine struck the sensitive organ between his scrambling legs with the back of a palm and dug her nails into the soft flesh, as Erik cried out and dropped again to the floor like a stone.

" _Delilah,_ " she thought he might have been saying, seething and spluttering into the gauzy white fabric she had torn from that hateful gown and stuffed into his mouth, "I'll kill you both––"

But the Angel's enthralling voice was muted: it could hold no power over her anymore. Christine stuffed the cloth deeper between his sputtering lips, crushing his grisly cheek to the floor with a fist and whispered, "you frighten me no longer, _Angel._ "

Now she turned towards the darkness and smiled. "Raoul," she hissed into the enveloping black, as Erik bucked violently against her hold, roaring into his wet gag, his yellow eyes flashing in terror; the blond man stepped from the shadows of the underground room, fine garments torn and hanging in rags, and Erik's own violin bow dangling from his clenched fist. " _Your turn._ "

* * *

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	8. Erik Always Gets What He Wants

_**Prompt:** Terik wonders: "why does anyone have to be naked?"_

_A/N: Terik is the name sometimes used to refer to my Erik from "Like Pulling Teeth" on Tumblr and Discord_

* * *

“Do you want me to take it off, Erik?”

The poor child was trembling, even as her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse; when I shot my gaze to her skirts on the barest raise of an eyebrow, she abandoned the effort and took up the fastenings of her bottoms instead, pale arms straining as she worked at the trail of silk-covered buttons just atop her perfect, plump rear.

As she has a tendency of being when it comes to so many menial things, Christine was clearly in need of my assistance. And so I did appease her, quickly capturing her by the forearm and wrenching her to me. She gave a quiet cry of surprise as I spun her about, firmly planting my hips behind hers.

Naturally, of course, the child could sense my _excitement_.

“Not now,” she breathed on a gasp, as I ground myself against her softness, forcing her forward against the hard mahogany of her bedroom vanity, her small fingers scrambling atop the wood, “Erik, at least let me undress––”

I parted her legs with a knee.

Now my fists curled in the many layers of her skirts as I dragged the fine fabric up the length of her spread thighs. “Innocent little Christine,” I mused, shoving her panties down over her rump as she gave a breathy cry, “why on earth should I require you to undress?”

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	9. Erik Gets Pegged

_**Prompt:** "Erik gets pegged 2020" for my dear brbdaly-a_

* * *

At first he resisted; on his hands and knees on the lush Persian carpet of the underground anteroom he gave a shuddering groan, panting, “Christine––I can't––” as soon as the barest tip of the thing slid within him. Behind him, holding the object to her sex as if it were her own cock she gripped in her sweating fist, Christine said nothing, only digging her fingernails deeper into the tautened and trembling flesh at the base of his throat and dragging her tongue over the back of his ear. ****

She saw his toes curl in his dress socks, saw his fingers dig into the plush carpeting beneath them as he arched his narrow back into her claiming; now Christine rose up on her knees, and with a long, slow, push––echoed in Erik’s groaning sob of pain, of desire––she entered him to the wrap of her fingers about the cool base of the polished ivory shaft.

“ _Please,_ ” he whispered, his Angel’s voice breathless, throaty with need, bucking his hips into hers, mindlessly begging for _more, more,_ “I love you––”

He panted into the carpet as she kissed his shoulders, his neck, his cheek; capturing his chin in her small hand Christine drew his mouth to hers, to kiss his wasted lips even as she slid the thing from within him, and still he was groaning, “I love you, Christine––I love you––”

And then, as she took him again, thrusting her hips into his, she whispered, wetly into his ear, “ _who is your Maestro now, my love?_ ”

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	10. The One With the Baby

_**Prompt:** "what if,, christine gets pregnant (by erik, of course)!!" from an Anon_

* * *

"Shut it up," came the bitter shout, echoing from the underground music-room, down the hall; Christine could hear the unmistakable sound of a folio striking the far wall and spilling out upon the stone floor, as the rancorous voice continued, with an echoing clamor as if the keys of a great instrument had been struck down upon, "damn that _thing_ and it's infernal bleating––Christine, _shut it up!_ " **  
**

In the living-room before the hearth, Christine Daaé soothed her son, bouncing the crying child in her arms and humming an old Scandinavian tune her father had often sung to her in her youth.

"I am warning you, woman!" roared her husband from afar; instinctively, Christine turned her back to the sound, clutching the boy closer to her chest, kissing his red, screaming cheek and wishing she were anywhere but where she was. When Erik’s shouts had dulled to only murmured curses––and she had deemed her husband's wrath of the sort that would not lead to further violence, this time––Christine sighed, tucked her son in the crook of an arm and settled once more into the rocking chair before the fire.

Erik had presented her with the chair only weeks ago. To Christine now, unfastening the row of neat ivory buttons atop her breast with trembling fingers, years might have passed since that convivial time.

‘You will need a warm place to nurse our boy,’ her husband had said gently, guiding her to sit in the gift with his usual, careful touch. The old, rigid leather armchair had been hauled away; the new, cushioned rocker took pride of place before the fire. 'Do you like it? Will it suit?' He knelt before her as she sat, pressing his thin lips to the roundness of her living belly. 'He will be beautiful, like his mother,' he whispered, meeting her gaze with that strange yellow stare, his reverent fingers clasping her own.

'Beauty counts for very little,' Christine had reminded him, and touched her lips to the soft, broken flesh of his naked forehead.

Only three weeks later the boy was born with a face just like his father’s, and Erik had refused to regard him since.

Ever the Phantom, now her husband appeared silently at her side; Christine gasped as the baby startled, throwing its pale arms in the air and crying out a single wail. "Oh, Erik, you gave me a fright!" she chastised him, hurriedly soothing the alarmed child, “you mustn’t sneak up on us like that anymore––”

"I told you to quiet it, Christine," Erik growled, eyes narrowed, "if you cannot do such a simple task as this, what good are you as a mother?"

She swallowed the insult. "All babies cry, and ours is very well behaved, overall. Come," she insisted, beckoning him closer, "hold him. Please, Erik––you would love him, if you would only hold him––"

" _Love_ it? I do not want to _look_ at it," he scoffed. "Christine, if you would only let me rid you of it––it would only take a moment to put it out of its misery––"

"You will do no such thing!" she hissed, wrapping her arms tightly about the gurgling bundle and pulling it close to her chest, "how can you speak such horror? Erik, he is your child!"

"It would be a kindness," he answered bitterly, under his breath, glaring down upon mother and baby. "I wish someone had thought to do the same for me."

Christine outstretched an open palm to her husband. He refused it, casting upon the gesture a look of arrant disdain; in the flickering fire light, his yellow eyes shone glassy and bright.

"I am so sorry, Erik," she breathed, and let the hand drop.

He kicked idly at the masonry at the base of the hearth. "I would not curse my worst enemy with a life such as mine, Christine––"

"I know."

For a long moment their eyes met, a silence heavy with unspoken truths; and then, as Christine broke free to return the fussing child to her breast, Erik coughed and looked away, fixing his stare to the crackling fire and clasping his long fingers behind his back.

"So you will keep it," he said after several long minutes had passed, punctuated only by the sussuring of the flames in the hearth, Christine's hushed lullaby, and the sleepy suckling of the child, "what have you named it?"

" _Him_ , Erik," she said gently, without glancing up from the bundle in her arms, "his name is Gustave."

"You would dishonor your father's memory by giving his name to a monster?”

"He is no monster." She stroked the child’s misshapen cheek. "He is a baby."

“Christine, foolish woman, look at his face!” Erik spat, turning. Water glistened about the dark eye-holes of his mask, brusquely, he wiped it away with the flat of a palm. “ _Look at it!_ You have birthed an abomination, and I am to blame. This is my curse, that I have set upon you! Forgive me––I never should have done this to you. I never should have allowed myself––don't you see? Our son will be hunted, hated. His life will be miserable––”

"No, it will not, Erik." She bent and kissed the small, gaping hole at the center of the baby’s face, just above the tiny cleft lip, then smiled brightly as he fixed his yellow eyes to hers and babbled a canorous string of gentle coos, "I am his mother. And I love him."

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_**A/N:** Ok so I realized after I wrote this that they were probably looking for Christine **literally getting pregnant** but oh well, this happened instead I guess... whoops._

_Thank you for following along! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	11. Blood (Terik Again)

_**Prompt:** "would you write about period sex i feel like your terik is into that lmao" from an Anon _

_**A/N:** This probably only makes sense if you’ve read “Like Pulling Teeth”, even though it literally has nothing to do with the plot. It’s hard to write these Terik prompts without spoiling anything! So this is really just my excuse to write Erik being a total dickhead. Depending on what you think of their relationship, this could very easily read as noncon, so best to avoid it if it isn’t your thing. Enjoy!_

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"Erik, I can't. Not today, please––" she whined, just as I captured the fleeing child about the wrist, wrenching her back to me. Though she beat her little fists upon my chest I quickly overpowered her, taking her around the waist with one arm and carting her to my dead mother's bed like a squealing pig to slaughter.

I flung her down upon the soft sheets. "It has been two days, _dear,_ for which you have evaded me, and I am tired of waiting!"

She scrambled away atop the mattress, even as I advanced; always one step ahead of the child, I grasped her by her flailing ankle and dragged her back to me. Forcing her legs apart by an elbow (and something of a rabid groan), I pinned her with one hand, and tearing at my fly I took up my eager shaft in the other, pumping viciously at myself as I stared into her pretty blue eyes.

She is never very fond of that particular behavior, I admit.

But her reticence was of a different sort than I had experienced in the girl before; instead of the tears and senselessly supplicative pleas I had long become accustomed to, her cheeks simply burned scarlet as I hastily crawled overtop her. Still her fists wound into the crisp cotton of her nightdress as she fought to resist my shoving the fabric up to her waist, as she pleaded, "please. Not today. Just not today!"

For a moment I stared at my fingers half-buried in the florid silk and lacy nether-things, struck dumb with surprise. "Have I hurt you?" I managed, my voice weakened with concern. A thousand possibilities flashed behind my eyelids: had I crushed her body with mine as I pinned her beneath me? Had I bruised her again––a two torturous days ago, now––when I last took her on the admittedly-jagged breakwater aside the lake? I have tried to subdue the worst of my most primal urges in the girl's presence, it is true––and yet I must admit that even to a man as principled as I am, one's baser desires have a tricky habit of getting the better of one, despite strict leanings toward the contrary…

Momentarily distracted, I stroked a finger up the inside of her pale thigh, and whispered, anxious, "Christine, tell me, what have I done?"

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, exhausted, "it is not an injury, you imbecile!" I raised a hand in a cruelly subconscious gesture; the girl flinched before I could lower it again. "My monthly, Erik," she whispered, ashamed, still eyeing my trembling fist. Then, peering up at me with those accusatory eyes, she added, "you do know what that is––"

Of course I knew. 

Well, it was hardly a cause for concern at all! In fact, as it were, the girl's predicament was a most enticing treat. And not only because it meant that my seed had not yet implanted in her almost-virgin’s womb, though that was certainly a bonus!

"Ah," I told her, all reticence forgotten, as I pressed her hard into the soft quilts, again sliding my length against her hot, slick entrance as she turned a cheek and pinched her lovely eyes shut tight, "what is the harm, my love? It is but a little more fluid to moisten the hole––"

Then covering her whimpering mouth with a fist as I shoved my full length within that bloody cunt, I teased her: "and I like my women dripping, besides!"

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_Thanks, as always, for following along! Reviews are always appreciated! :)_


	12. And Other Things

_**Prompt** : "Erik teaching Christine how to kiss, and other things... " from an Anon_

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"See," he whispered, his breath still hot against her mouth, "it is as simple as that, child. A kiss is such a little thing––"

He sat aside her on the couch in the strange living-room beyond the lake, the fire gently hissing in the hearth the only light to break the surrounding darkness. The kiss had been his idea, and she had agreed without thinking; like Persephone to his Hades, these past two weeks in his strange realm beneath the earth, she had found herself unable to resist anything he asked of her.

Christine had already tasted his pomegranate seeds.

The moisture of his lips still pricked against hers, cooling the skin; his fingers wrapped about the base of her neck and in her hair, binding her close, and again she was sinking, sinking––

"This time," he breathed, his siren's voice ragged with desire, "open your mouth."

And then he was upon her. His lips sampled her throat, her jaw, the corner of her waiting mouth; now, as he pressed his lips to hers she felt the heat of his tongue pushing within to slip against her own, heard the rough, breathy groan rise in his throat as he wound his long fingers deeper into her hair, crushing her face to his. When his hand closed over her breast, bruising the soft flesh, she gave a cry and broke from his lips, gripping his wrist in her sweating fingers, unsure if she meant to push him away or draw him closer.

“Was that better?” she whispered, afraid and yet wanting more, as Erik slid his hand to the center of her hammering chest, “how did I do?”

He pushed her back against the cushions, folding his body over hers. "You are a natural, Christine," he told her, easing her trembling legs apart beneath his, "shall we see what else you excel at?"

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_Thanks, as always, for following along! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	13. Instead of

_**Prompt:** "I’m not sure if you’re still taking requests (if not that’s fine!) b u t Some E/R with Raoul being a bratty sub would be great, thanks!" from an Anon_

_**T/W:** noncon (ish)_

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The boy loves the noose, I have noticed; his cock goes rigid in his torn trousers every time I pull the rope taut about his hairless throat. He complains, but he cannot conceal his blushes. The heat in his cheeks reminds me of an apple, perfectly ripe.

Nothing can stop me from taking a bite.

Christine is lost in a deep, dreamless sleep in the chamber beyond; she believes I have left to lock the boy away, safe in some dungeon, far from me. She martyrs herself for him, and I hate her for it. My nature is violence, but from that I will spare her; the boy, however, will pay for winning her love.

Where I cannot have hers, I will claim his soul.

I draw the noose tight, admiring the fight in him. His shoes slide against the carpet as he wrestles himself away from me; even helpless, he is ashamed to let me see his guilty cock. I stroke the naked flesh beneath his torn shirt, running my fingers up his broad, sweating chest, digging my nails into his yellow curls; before me he whines and bites his teeth into his bottom lip.

He does not realize that he is already begging.

A lazy flick of a wrist and I cut the rope. He crumples to the floor, sputtering, choking, glaring; his bound wrists strain behind his back as he attempts to find his feet. His voice is like gravel when he finally addresses me; I relish the sound of my rope in his words. “You promised her you would spare me,” he says, and his hero’s confidence is stirring, “you will not keep your promise.”

He thinks I aim to kill him! I do not. I laugh, earning the knitting of his adorable brow; “on your knees,” I command him easily, to which he answers, the sudden panic flooding his features:

“Make me, Devil!”

I do. I want to shame him, to mortify him. I want him to remember what I’ve brought him to. I will ruin the man he believes he is, and then he will understand what he has taken:

I am only a monster; it is nothing to me.

“You wouldn’t,” he hisses, but his cock is hard as I slide my hand beneath his trousers. My cold flesh jolts him, and I feel him rise into my touch; now his breath comes ragged, as he growls between occluded teeth, “I knew you were a beast––”

“If I am, are you not one too?” I counter, shoving his trousers down over his hips. He does not resist me as I take his sex in my fist, my other hand tracing the red line of his throat, then climbing his boyish jaw to force the fingers into his mouth; with hatred in his beautiful gaze he glares sidelong at me, whimpering weakly. He is fighting me with everything he has, but I can see the terror in his glass stare; he knows as well as I do that he is going to submit to me. He is the battle and the battlefield; all heroes long to die.

I spit in my hand; I pump him harder. I am a man, however much I may not look like one, and I know how to make a man come. Shuddering into my touch, his lips close over my flesh, sucking at my fingers. “Beautiful boy,” I whisper, feeling his shame begin to pool over my hand, “brave boy.”

He scrabbles against my front, despite his bound wrists; I press my cock into his hands and he captures it, frantically stroking. He is acting on instinct, and it is magnificent. I revel in watching this pillar crumble to dust.

I will push him to the ground and take him, here on my living-room floor, in the way I will never do Christine; he will whimper and groan and plead with me and cry, and when he comes on my carpet, I know I will have broken him. His debt will be paid.

“Please,” he will whisper. He will say my name.

_Please._

It is the cruelest fate I can damn him with. Christine will have lost him; the boy will be mine.

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_Thanks for following along! Reviews are always appreciated ;)_


	14. Punishment (Terik)

_Prompts: **"I dunno if you're taking requests but... Terik spanking (and/or more?..) Christine cause she keeps going back to Raoul? Please and thank you luv."** from an Anon and " **More**_ **🍑👋🏻 _MORE_ 🍑👋🏻"** _from an Anon_

_T/W: noncon, abuse. Makes more sense if you read "Like Pulling Teeth."_

* * *

"Where were you, today," I commanded, as soon as the sullen-looking thing ambled lazily through my underground entryway, dragging her dusty little feet over my carpet. I pointed at the clock, ticking maddeningly atop the mantlepiece. "You are forty-three minutes late."

She slid her cloak from her slumped shoulders and hung it by the door, then passed a hand over her frizzy yellow curls. "It couldn't be helped," she said simply, on a shrug that stank of disobedience. With some effort, I resisted the urge to lunge for her and wrap my fingers about her pale throat.

"Did you fuck the boy?" I spat instead, unable to prevent the flow of the indecent words from my lips. I drummed my fingertips against the arm of my chair, glaring, feeling the thunderous rise of hatred in my chest; the child stared blankly at me for several moments.

"No," she said, then turned towards her bedroom.

I was up in an instant, knocking my chair to its side in my haste; she yelped her surprise as I caught her against the wall in the hallway, shoving her spine to the smooth, immovable stone with such force that an old copy of a Courbet crashed to the ground at her side. "Why were you late, Christine?" I demanded, crushing my body to hers, pinning her. My knee shoved between her thighs, forcibly parting her legs beneath her skirt; she dug her fingernails into my chest, attempting to push me from her. Then––I noticed with a nauseating sinking of my stomach––as if she had remembered the extent of her helplessness, her hands fell away and she went limp and slack, her sad blue gaze focused on the dusty floor between us.

I slid my thumb over the purplish mark that ran across one pretty cheek.

"He asked me about them," she breathed, turning her face from my touch. 

I dug my finger into the bruised flesh; she yelped, then bit her bottom lip. "And what did you tell him, Christine?" I drawled, terrified of her reply.

"That I was hit by a carriage."

"A carriage?" Now I laughed, softly, wanting to die; she nodded. Her cheeks had gone as pink as a raspberry torte. When I pressed my ravaged lips to that warmth she flinched; I touched my leather forehead to hers and sighed.

"What do you expect me to do?" she said carefully. I drew away just enough to meet her eyes, as she continued, unblinking, "Erik, I must tell him something. Would you prefer that I ran from him?"

"Yes," I spat, though I knew the idea was ridiculous; the girl could run from an aristocrat in the middle of the Opera no more than she could bring herself to love me.

I brought my palm to her throat to stroke from clammily-sweating collar to shoulder. As she gasped her protest above me, I nuzzled the hole of my nose into the crook of her neck, and after some moments spent inhaling her scent, hating her frozen silence at my doing so, I pulled away to give the girl the freedom she needed to escape me. Without a moment's pause she shoved from the wall and from me, chin held defiantly high, and passed through the hall to her bedroom beyond.

Naturally, I followed her.

She stood at her vanity. Her expression was distant, sad, as she reached up to work the pins on her hat; she dropped the damp and dusty thing on the table-top and peered at herself in the mirror as I watched, tracing her delicate fingers over the purple ruin of her cheek.

"On the bed, now, Christine," I said quietly, behind her, meeting her gaze in her mirror; unbuttoning my collar with two fingers, I slipped free my necktie.

She swallowed, turning. Her hair was a frizzy mess, and about her pretty blue eyes the skin was dark as another bruise, albeit from lack of sleep or my own cruel hands I was not sure I wished to know. "Please," she whispered, but my mind was already made up, and I knew that she could see my intention in my stare.

I tautened the long silk strand of my necktie between my fists.

Instinctually, my pet's pretty fingers scrabbled at her side for a candlestick, a hairbrush, anything that might be used as a projectile in defense of her honor, but as always, I was much too fast for her. "Come now," I teased, already relishing in the familiar game, diving for her even as the second book she had flung at me bounced off my chest and landed upon the floor between us, spine broken, papery guts spilling out across the carpet, "now, child, there is no use in that!" She gave a groan of unwilling submission as, with another lunge, I captured her by the back of her skirts and spun her about. "Christine, darling," I whispered wetly in her ear, pulling her close even as she flailed and fought against my hold, "why must you always resist me? We both know you enjoy what comes next."

I flung the squealing creature face down atop her mattress, quickly binding both wrists against the farthest column of the four-post bed with the necktie I still crushed in one fist; with her front stretched out over the blankets, Christine writhed and wriggled, fighting me with all her helpless might such that the scrambling of her pretty feet tangled her bedside carpet into a heap. 

"I said nothing else to him!" she wailed into the blankets, attempting to distract me; and yet that threshold was crossed as soon as she opened my door––I could not be so easily subdued. Not now. "I have not betrayed you!"

Throwing my body down against her backside, muttering curses, I kicked the carpet away. "I am not going to fuck you, child," I hissed in her ear, gripping the wiggling thing by the throat as with my other hand, I tore the skirts from her waist to crumple about her knees. When she whimpered into my hold I only bound her tighter, adding, as my tongue sampled her ear, "but I _am_ going to punish you, Christine, for the wrong which you have shown me––"

As I shoved her underthings down her hips her struggling began in earnest; "don't you dare!" she cried, attempting to fend me off with her feet. I was laughing now, and even I knew the sound of it was terrible: the poor child had reason to sob, and as ever, that reason was me.

"You choose," I said raggedy, between great thunderous peals of rancorous mirth, "you'll bleed either way, I suppose, little thing, but Erik loves a splash of red. Your sheets shall match the curtains!" To test her, I slid two fingers along the slit of her cunt, from ass to clit; the girl gave a soft cry when I touched upon that sensitive button.

"I would rather you beat me," she hissed, as she usually did; of course, I was more than happy to oblige her!

" _So be it_ ," I roared, and struck her rump with the flat of my palm; she cried out:

_No!_

But I followed the strike with another, and another after that; with every hit the girl squirmed and grunted, as I felt the result of my ministrations in the meaningful tightening between my legs, that promise of another, forbidden violence: I was bound by that foolish promise to the child, and if I wanted a wife, I must keep it.

And yet each hit was a powerful relief of another sort, as I wailed upon my poor fiance, first with my left hand, and then both in turns, and more turns after that; beneath me Christine had gone stiff as a board, if boards could tremble, as she dug her white fingertips into the mattress and buried her face in the blankets. I was laughing still, but how it disgusted me, as her poor little body broke beneath my hands, and the sting of water burned on my cheeks, burbling and pooling in the corner of my open, laughing lips––

Such lips as I have; such lips that the child still refuses to kiss.

"You will not speak to him," I demanded, for now my sick laughter had devolved into an animal's growl, as hand after hand after hand struck down upon soft, apple-red skin, and the girl took my abuse as if she were a corpse on the bed; I only hit her harder, needing to hear, something, anything at all from those dead lips. 

"Never," she mumbled into her mattress, appeasing me, "never again, Erik!"

And so we carried on for the better part of a half hour, my hands ruthless against her soft flesh as she whimpered and shook beneath me. Only once, when the game had begun to bore me, I pushed her thighs apart and slapped her there as well, but by then she was sobbing hot, sticky tears into the blankets, and all the joy of my insane anger had devolved into something shameful, something weak. 

I had to beg forgiveness. 

The red ruin of her ass glowed like a beacon in the dismal grey of my mother's underground bedroom; carefully, I traced two fingers up her sore and shining flesh, as her still bottom began again to alluringly wriggle, for the child knew exactly what I intended next.

"Turn over," I told her, my voice as soft as a whisper but heavy in its command. Long ago she had given up the evening's resistance, as ever she did; now, further twisting the silk about her wrists such that it carved red lines into her pale flesh like ribbons she turned, arranging herself on her back before me, all sprawled across the mattress. She drew her legs in their rolled-down stockings up about her sides, little toes curling against the edge of the bed, her forgotten skirts and petticoats in a ruined pile beneath my feet.

"Please don't," she begged me, knowing, of course, that I would. Between her legs the girl was already dripping; I let my stare linger there, watching her soft, spread cunt reveal her deepest secret. "Erik," she added breathlessly, her brow prettily furrowed as she gazed up at me, "Erik, please––"

I slid the backs of my fingers up the inside of her naked thigh; silenced, she trembled. "I trust you with the boy, Christine," I started, my voice as soft as a caress, "I know you would never betray that trust."

"I wouldn't," she whispered, and she slid her red tongue over her teeth.

Waiting.

See, my Christine is a good girl, a sweet little thing, for putting up with me, and for her sweetness she knows that I will always reward her––

Slowly, I dragged my belt from around my waist; she swallowed. 

"Now, hold your legs open for me," I breathed. 

And meeting my eye with her glassy blue stare, she did.

* * *

_A/N: Terik is the Erik from my phic "Like Pulling Teeth". Yes, I know he wouldn't be wearing a belt but like... this prompt was already getting too long and ... whatever maybe he invented belts_

_Thanks for following along! Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	15. Pandora's Box

_**Prompt:** “Hey, if you're still taking prompts––what about one of Christine waking Erik up in the middle of the night for sex? Bonus points if its their first time. Cheers!” from an Anon _

_A/N: explicit fluff, a bit rough. No additional warnings apply._

* * *

"Erik, are you sleeping?" came the soft voice from the shadows, hardly discernible to even his acute senses, "can you hear me?"

He thought he must be dreaming; surely the girl would know better than to seek him out in his bedroom in the middle of the night. And yet, as he drew himself up to sitting in the narrow casket of his box-like bed, there she was, clinging to the frame of his open doorway, her blind blue eyes searching in the surrounding darkness, her long, white nightdress sweeping about her bare feet.

"What is it, child," he said tacitly, attempting to conceal the tremor in his throat. Upon finding her there in the forbidden privacy of his bedroom, his body had already betrayed him; beneath his sheets and night clothes, blood rushed crudely between his thighs, awakening the sick, lustful thoughts that so often filled his mind at any proximity to the beautiful creature. Unconsciously, he shoved a pillow over his shame, adding, "have you had a nightmare?" 

_Of course she has,_ he chastised himself as she glanced at her feet. _She is locked in hell, with you._

"Not a nightmare," she whispered, like the answer to a prayer. She was drifting closer, stumbling and pausing as she bungled across the pitch-black room; in his bed, Erik sat rigid and unmoving, hardly daring to breathe should the sound bring her closer or frighten her away. "No, I'm––Erik, it's just that I… I wondered if… oh, I'm very _cold!"_

Stupid man! Of course she was! "Oh, Christine," he groaned, shifting as if to rise, "I am sorry! Erik is a miserable, cold-blooded thing, he forgets how hot Christine's red blood must flow––I'll light the fire––"

She reached the edge of his casket, curling her small fingers over the wood; afraid that she might sense the heat of the sick thing that burned between his legs should he stand, the disgusting visions scarring his eyelids, he lowered again to the narrow mattress. "No, Erik," she said, her questioning palm reaching out for him, "you do not need to… but perhaps… well, I had hoped I might stay with you awhile?"

She did not wait for a reply. Hiking up her night-dress and spreading her legs–– _God help him_ ––she crawled up and into the casket, folding on to her knees at the base of the mattress as Erik scrambled, crab-like, to its head. "You mustn't," he stammered, fearing his own abhorrent thoughts at the vision of the Angel in his bed, as between his thighs, his sins raged like the Devil's own, "it is not safe!"

"Safe?" echoed Christine, laughingly crawling towards him on hands and knees, as every cell in his body longed to reach for her, to commit a thousand nameless horrors upon that soft flesh; and yet he remained frozen, gripping the side of the casket. He groaned weakly when she captured his hand, guiding him unresisting to his side and sliding under the blankets beside him, her rear to his front. "Just for a little while," she promised on a tremulous sigh, as Erik flattened his entire body to the immovable wood barrier of the casket, attempting to prevent any part of him from brushing hers, and damn him, especially _that_ part––

And then she wriggled against him, pushing the whole of her soft form onto his, rigid and crude.

"–– _oh!_ " she gasped, stiffening.

"––I am so sorry!" he whispered in frantic apology, "I shouldn't have allowed you––you must find me disgusting––it's just that you surprised me, Christine, I wouldn't normally––"

"It's alright," Christine breathed as he stifled a mortified groan, shifting her rump such that he could feel the explicit gap between her thighs, warm against the sensitive tip of his shaft, "I––I do not mind." When he could not find the presence of mind to speak she added, quietly, with a nervous turn to her sweet voice, "you can put your arms around me, if you like..."

Woodenly, Erik let his arm fall, hovering slightly over the curve of her, against the mattress just before her belly; afraid to make contact with her warm flesh, his hand formed a tight fist. Wriggling closer still, Christine whispered, breathless, "it is alright if you want to _touch_ me, too, Erik."

He did. Indeed her blood ran hot; no sooner than he had placed a trembling palm atop the hollow of her waist, her body writhed into his, grinding against his sex as a soft moan parted her lips. "I am dreaming," he murmured, marveling at the curves of her shape beneath her thin chemise, mindlessly dragging his hand down her hip, "or you are sleeping. You would not allow me such trespasses were you awake––"

"I wondered if you would send me away," she said softly, one nervous palm reaching behind her to glide over his hip, then crawling beneath his night clothes. "I feared you might… but I cannot sleep for thinking about our lesson tonight, Erik." She shifted slightly, turning her body such that her soft sex pressed to his, whispering, "won't you let me thank you for all that you have done for me?"

"I do it for free," he mumbled, cursing himself for saying so, even as his eyes pinched shut at the unbearable heat of her upon him, “I require none––”

“All the same, I wish to offer it, should you accept.” Her heartbeat hammered wildly, her whole small body vibrating like a hummingbird's against his chest as her searching fingers brushed the length of his cock.

" _Christine!"_ Erik stammered, raising his hand; but she had already turned about, pressing her front close to his such that the soft weight of her breasts against his hollow chest stopped his breath, and brought her mouth to his, in her blindness kissing the corner of his ruined jaw. He pinched his thin lips tightly shut until she drew away, her questioning fingertips seeking his features.

"You do not want me to touch you?' she breathed, sounding wounded, "but you––"

"You would sully your fingers to do so," he admitted as her thumb swept his lip, ashamed of how much like a whimper the words sounded in his ears, "Christine, I am not wearing my mask––"

But she kissed him again, and now her lips met their mark; surrendering into the ecstatic pleasure of that kiss, as her tongue sought his in his whimpering mouth. For only an instant he surrendered, letting his hands twist into her yellow curls, hanging loose about her shoulders and falling like wings over his pillow, and then on a groan, as he realized the horror of his unforgivable crime, he pushed her from him.

"Erik!" she protested, thrown by his sudden violence, "Erik, don't do that, please––it's alright––"

His heart beat wildly like a captured animal's as he cowered against the rigid wood. How could she allow him such intimacy? He could not trust it; surely the girl was baiting him in some way. 

"What did you come here for?" he hardly breathed the words, both desiring and fearing her answer, senselessly dragging his palm up her thigh to slip beneath her nightgown and cup the bare flesh of her plump rear. "Are you goading me with this?"

"I would never," she stammered, hand to his heart, "I am in your bed, am I not?" Her blind eyes darted between them, then again to his face. "You cannot claim that you do not enjoy my presence––"

“Christine,” he warned, heat rising to his cheeks despite the darkness, "Christine, I––"

" _Please_ ," she whispered, and kissed him again.

Lost to the warmth of her mouth upon his, his baser instincts took full control of his senses. On a desperate groan he dragged a hand over her naked hip and down the back of her thigh, digging the fingers into the plump flesh just beneath her rear; mindlessly, he drew her leg up and over his own narrow hip, opening her slick warmth to him as she flung her arms around his shoulders and moaned into his kiss. Like a man possessed––and was he not possessed? For this was a fallen Angel herself imprisoned in his arms, and how she had claimed his soul in return––he shoved his nightclothes up about his hip, and madly, like a threat, let her feel the hot truth of what she knew she had arisen in him against the softness of her low belly.

"I should punish you for your foolishness," he growled, rapidly abandoning himself to carnal madness, feeling like a thief in a holy place. He slid two fingers over her sex, circling her entrance as she squirmed against his hold, panting softly; growling, he eased the tip of one finger inside, briefly shutting his eyes as he pushed a groan through clenched teeth. "Idiotic child," he murmured, fearing his imminent surrender, "you should have realized what you were up against––"

She whined into his touch, hissing, "Erik, there is nothing you can have of me now that I do not freely give!"

He could not trust the words; no woman could want him, no woman could come to him willingly, knowing what he was. Under his breath, he hissed, "then you will regret having come to me," as his arm beneath her body snaked up to capture both of her wrists and bind the hands at the base of her spine, forcing her chest to push against his and her pointed nipples to protrude from her thin chemise. 

"Everything I possess is yours," she swore, wriggling into his bruising hold. "Take it!"

How could he resist her? A small voice in his head screamed out in protest––foul, loathsome, undeserving–– _rapist_ ––and yet the lustful animal in him was the victor; on a groan, as Christine’s blind eyes opened wide and she gave a gasping cry in surprise, he pushed suddenly within her, holding her leg up by the thigh to deepen his forceful entry. It was her first time, he knew, and yet he could not find the strength to treat her gently––and why should he, for now as Erik grunted out each rapid sidelong thrust her little toes curled against the edge of his casket, and she broke free of his hold to throw her arms around him, digging her fingernails, hard, into the back of his skull––

“Erik,” she was moaning, to the slick, drumming rhythm of his body breaking hers apart, as her leg kicked out against his rutting hip, “oh, _God!_ Erik, Erik––”

He had never bedded a woman in the casket, for it was his most private place, a constant reminder of his dead and hated flesh; now, as each thrust forced her small body against the opposite side of the narrow box, he feared it ready to plunge from its pedestal. Still he could not soften his blows; maddening lust had simmered within him for months, only to boil over in one senseless instant, as he lost all control of himself––he had imagined something beautiful, and now he was ruining her, taking out his self-hatred in her soft, obliging flesh, her willing, wanting, flesh––

And she liked it; for with every rancorous thrust of his hips, she only held him tighter, only cried out louder. Her heartbeat pounded against his, her sweating body no longer shivering but lasciviously hot and slick and stinking, and he was drowning: with a growl, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, swallowing her whole, breaking away only when her fingers had begun to claw and swat against him––

“Little Pandora,” he growled against her gasping, groaning mouth, his hips pounding mercilessly into hers as her blue eyes pinched tightly shut, “are you warm enough now?”

* * *

**A/N:** _Why are these prompts getting so long? Whoops... ANYWAY thanks, as always, for following along! Feel free to prompt me over on Tumblr._ **Please leave a comment, it is greatly appreciated!** _:)_

_-Cat_


	16. Flirting

_**Prompt** : "The first night Christine spends in Erik's house??" from an Anon _

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Down, down through the bowels of the grand opera house she had followed him, guided by his insistent grasp upon her hand and the bobbing glow of his solitary lantern as he guided her through steep, narrow passageways, cavernous, forgotten rooms, and over still, black water, drawing her to him with his unearthly voice like the Pied Piper to his rats.

Now, in an off-puttingly retro bedroom in what appeared to be a modest, if underground house, her strange captor eyed her in a manner she wasn't entirely fond of, and cleared his throat.

"Disrobe, Christine," he said finally, clasping his hands tightly against the open doorway, herself planted beside the bed. He pointed towards the massive piece of furniture as Christine stared at it, dumbstruck. "It is time to go to bed."

The chloroform he had dosed her with during their descent had made her drowsy and confused, and yet she understood his meaning plainly. "I will not!" she protested, horrified, and crossed her arms over her chest.

He looked surprised. "You will not?"

"Monsieur--"

"Call me Erik, please."

She tapped a foot emphatically. "Erik, if you think that you have brought me here to--"

"I have brought you here because I love you, and intend to make you my wife," he said matter-of-factly, glancing about the well-appointed, if outdated room. "You have everything you need to be comfortable here. Is it not to your liking?"

"It is very nice, yes," she admitted. It would have been pleasant enough, if long curtains hadn't been drawn over blank, lightless walls, and if standing within it did not fill her nostrils with the pervasive odor of damp carpeting. 

And if a strange man--called Erik, as she had already gleaned by his odd manner of speaking, long before he remembered to introduce himself to her--who concealed the entirety of his face with a disarming black shroud weren't staring contemplatively at her from the doorway.

"Good, good." The man clapped his long-fingered hands together and took a confident stride towards her, clearly satisfied with her response. "Take off your gown, then, please."

"I shall do no such thing!"

He frowned. "Would you like money? I have a great deal of it. Shall Erik set you up an account at the Bank of France? Anything you could need, Christine, Erik will provide it for you--"

She glanced again at the bed things, the ruffled pillows and crocheted throw neatly arranged atop a florid quilt. "Erik, I am not a prostitute," she said flatly.

"Of course you are not!" he exclaimed, looking affronted, then quickly mortified. "Erik would not presume--you are a lady of the highest calibre, of course--but as you consented to follow, I thought--"

Christine threw up her arms, overwhelmed. "I am not going to bed you!" 

"No?"

"No!"

"Really?"

" _No!"_

"Ah," he muttered finally, fingering in a pocket for his watch and squinting at it for several moments before tucking it away again, "ah. Yes, of course… but are you absolutely _certain--?"_

"Erik!"

He stared at her, looking dumbfounded, then about the room, as if appraising its contents. Frowning, he straightened his waistcoat and offered, "you have looked in the closets, as well?"

Christine said nothing.

"And the bath! Have you seen the bath?"

She pointed to the door. "Please go now, Erik."

"Go?"

_"Now."_

And with the air of a man whose entire worldview had crumbled to dust in front of his eyes, he stammered, "right, then, Christine… off to bed… by yourself…" and left the room.

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_This was so dumb, I'm sorry 😅 I'm sure you were looking for smut, but I've got an actual WIP in the works of the "first night" ... so this happened instead..._

_ANYWAY thanks for following along y'all! Reviews are always appreciated ;)_


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